OK. So my poor run of recommendations continues. Adam Scott (@ 20:1) didn’t win the Open, but I take full responsibility. Bob can’t be blamed. In fact he brought good fortune to most everyone he carried the scoreboard for. Tom Watson’s penultimate round started well enough. The damage to his hopes of making the cut happened on the second day culminating in a shank and a three putt on the 18th. Bob, that day, was with a little known Yorkshireman called Danny Willett who shot 66 to lead the field going into the third round and gave him an unsigned golf ball for his efforts. And they call Scots mean? Then on Sunday Bob was paired with Louis Oosthuizen and a young Irish amateur called Paul Dunne who played the round of his life to end up tied for the lead with Louis. What excitement. The Beeb was all over them. There was a great shot of Bob’s feet at one point ( shoe laces undone we noted ) and then, my nephew managed to Snapchat us this photo, taken as they left the 18th green, of Paul Dunne, a future Open champion ( possibly ) doffing his cap to Bob ( in the white jump suit – at least I think that’s Bob ).
No, it definitely is Bob. Despite the fact I write this slightly hungover from an irresponsibly late Thursday night out I am by no means in the state I was last Friday morning following a session at the Railway Inn, Lower Largo.
Thursday night is Quiz night in the Railway as you might be aware and I got a bit carried away after successfully answering albeit just the one question that practically no one else got which was - no conferring and see if you can recall - who was the first black footballer to play for England? In high spirits I landed a couple of pints of Belhaven on top of several bottles of the Wine Society’s Croze Hermitage. Well that was a mistake.
So when I finally made it up to St Andrews the next day and met with a client I still wasn’t feeling my best. We trundled out onto the course to watch a bit of golf and eventually, at the 6th tee, caught up with the Adam Scott group to which Bob had been assigned. The tall, blond haired boy in the jump suit, barely 10 yards away from us, responded when I shouted “Bob”, but quickly hid his face behind the scoreboard he was carrying as he realised that both my friend and I were defying all the R&A protocols and taking photos of him. And I suppose I was just a little miffed that he hadn’t shown us a nice smile when, as the group walked away, I began to have some doubts. The walk seemed too stiff and erect. And the hair, whilst fair, was well kempt. No, I concluded, after way too long a deliberation, I really wasn’t certain it was Bob. My friend Iain looked at me kindly, but bemused.
I would normally be able to recognise my own son. Really I would. I told you I wasn’t feeling well. It transpired that Bob had volunteered to go with an earlier group and was farther out on the course with the very Danny Willett who was having, as I mentioned, a wonderful round. So focussed was he on his game and the tricky second shot he was standing over, that I really don’t think Danny noticed the commotion behind him, but which greeted me, the very instant I finally caught up with them only to witness Bob’s scoreboard be literally blown to bits by the howling gale and yellow numbers scattered all over the 12th fairway followed by Bob and the bunker-raker scrabbling about trying to pick them up before they ended in the Eden Estuary.
Hey ho. Of course the Open was just a fairly irrelevant precursor to the key competition this summer on the Old Course …. Bring on the Big Stick, a week on Saturday. More on that anon I suspect.
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